Day twelve
I woke up without a plan. The Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument was to my south, but I eventually needed to make my way north to Gila Bend, where Interstate 8 was the only way I saw of continuing west without crossing into Mexico, or taking the unpaved and unmaintained Camion del Diablo through one of the most remote parts of the Sonoran Desert—an option I had considered, but didn’t have the tires or water-carrying capacity for.
I knew I would need water, so started by going to the Why Not? Travel Center to top up after enjoying a leisurely breakfast and packing up camp. The store clerk was uninterested in helping me plan my day, supplying only the facts of how far it was the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, and how much farther to Mexico.
Figuring I should at least see the cacti, I went south. I stopped at the first pull-off in the park for a quick snack, and to decide if I would continue on, or call it good and turn around. I ended up chatting with a guy who introduced himself as The Captain, and who had a whale of a tail to fit the honorific.
The park was pretty, but it was still miles to the visitor center. I looked up camping options and found one just an hour north of where I stayed the last night, so decided to head further into the park just until the timing worked out that I should turn around.
Reading some signs at the next pull-off, I learned that the mountains I was seeing around me were from volcanic activity millions of years ago, and the subsequent erosion by freezing rain and monsoon. I also learned that both the Sonoran Desert I had been traveling through since leaving Bisbee, and the Chihuahuan Desert I had traveled through in New Mexico are midlatitude deserts, with arid conditions caused by atmospheric water patterns largely depriving the land of moisture—as opposed to rain shadow deserts, where rain is depleted by tall mountains before reaching the dry land beyond.
Someone else drove into the pull-off and was curious to hear about my biking. He shared his stories of van life after retiring last year from teaching in Sequim, Washington (located on the Olympic Peninsula in a small rain shadow). He likes to explore a place on foot for a few days, then drive maybe 25-50 miles and explore the next place. He had been on a walk the other day and found a cache of backpacks, camouflage clothes, supplies, and “carpet shoes” (which he explained were shoes with a fleece sole that wouldn’t show footprints in the sand). Someone from the park had told him that people traveling north had probably arranged a pickup along that stretch of road, so were able to abandon those supplies. I thought about the border patrol checkpoints I had to ride through, both to the north and to the east, and wondered if there was another road the group may have found.
Despite the time, I continued to the park visitor center. I estimated I was a little less than three hours from the camp I planned to stay at for the night. I strolled through a nature path, and was especially glad to learn about the Cholla cactus, which I had heard had spikes that would jump several feet to grapple onto a passing animal as its way of propagating in a new place (the person who told me this couldn’t remember what they looked like, so I had been giving wide berth to any roadside cactus that was unfamiliar). Turns out the “jumping” aspect is a longtime myth, and while I had been told I would need pliers and a stiff drink to get out the spines, a simple comb and tweezers should suffice.
The park ranger suggested I could go a few more miles south to see the border wall, but I wasn’t sure why I would want to, and I estimated I had just enough time to get to my new camp with maybe another break or two on the way there.
I hadn’t realized that most of my ride to the visitor center was downhill. It wasn’t a steep ride back north, but just enough so that—combined with recovering from the day before—I was dragging. There was a sign for a roadside table where I decided I’d take a break. That turned out to be across the street from the BLM land I camped on the night before. I pulled back into the campground and decided that I’d head north the next day.
Day thirteen
I was glad I hadn’t pushed on the day before as I was climbing briefly but steadily to Ajo, Arizona. It was a lovely ride with fresh legs, but would have felt like a chore at the end of the day.
I didn’t know what to expect in the tiny town of Ajo. I waved to a woman who was walking on the side of the road, turned with a bend in the road, and was greeted with colorful murals decorating the sides of several buildings on the outskirts of town. Another bend and I see beautiful mission-style architecture downtown, and a Farmers Market and Café that I decided to stop at. I’m wondering what sort of farming can happen in the desert as I walk in to find piles and piles of large bags of beans. I order a bean burrito then continue downtown to investigate the architecture.
Ajo—like much of the Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona—has been home to the O’odham people for thousands of years, and—again following a pattern of small towns in southern Arizona—was once a prosperous mining town. Unlike the many mining towns that have since become ghost towns, Ajo survived in part because the thoughtful city planning made it attractive to residents even after mining production ceased, and in part because the O’odham people—once relegated to the outskirts of a segregated town—have made the place central to a thriving arts and culture scene.
As I was learning about Ajo from the historical markers in the town square, the woman who I had waved to outside of town came up to me to say hello again, because she said I just had the greatest smile. She told me how she and her husband ended up staying in Ajo longer than expected while RVing in the region because they were so drawn to the place. I understood what she meant, and may have been tempted into a very short day on my bike had I not already booked a room in Gila Bend for the night. She gave me a tip about heavily-discounted energy bars at a shop on the square. I bought six.
As I continued north, hatching up a plan to buy a van and establish a mobile bike repair business in Ajo, someone pulled off the road ahead of me.
In the hierarchy of types of vehicles I’ve come to prefer because of the overall friendliness of their drivers, past-their-prime ‘90s sedans rank high on the list, as do motorcycles and most semi-trucks (as professional drivers, I find they have a good understanding of how much space to give, and I still love me a friendly semi-truck horn honk). White and silver pickup trucks rank low, and minivans are a complete mixed bag, with their drivers seeming to be the most unsure of what to make of me biking on the road.
The vehicle that pulled off the road ahead of me was a white truck. I approached cautiously as a man leaned out the window and asked if I needed water. I didn’t really, but decided to take the invitation to stop for a bit. The man’s name was Rodman, and he had just filled up several gallons of water in the “Casita” trailer he was pulling, headed to meet some friends who wanted his advice on their own transition into van life. Rodman was curious about my bikepacking setup, so we chatted for a bit before he took my picture, pulled a couple KIND bars out of the Casita for me and continued on his way.
Most of the route to Gila Bend was downhill, save for a gorgeous, craggy mountain range I passed through. Once in town, I checked into the quaint, family-run Palms Inn. I got a late lunch from a pizza place that Prince Harry once ate at, not long after followed by an early dinner from a burrito place with no such accolades.
My next day would be my first day biking on the Interstate, the traffic from which I heard from my room for most of the night.
